The Boy Who Smells Death
by Berries and Cream
Summary: The stink hangs over those who near death. And then it hangs over Zoro. Sanzo.
1. Chapter 1

Death.

The first time Sanji comes across its scent, he's ten, a young cook working aboard the Orbit. He carries a platter of lemon garlic shrimp. It's his own creation, his very first as a licenced cook. Already he shows promise. He's added a splash of coconut milk―despite the head chef's rejection― to the dish, enhancing the shrimps piquant flavor as it couples for a richer taste. The tray shakes on the tips of his undexterous fingers when he passes _her_.

She's a kind elder woman―mother of the ship's captain, a plump, stout lady with wire gray hair pulled back into a neat bun. She dotes on the young Sanji, pinching his cheeks with her frail fingers, often bringing him close into tight embraces. Sanji likes to drink the woman's scent, lavender and oranges woven into the wool of her loose knitted sweaters.

Sanji passes her in terse greeting when a faint whiff of the woman brings about an attack on his nasal cavities.

His face contorts in disgust.

His dish crashes loudly on the floor.

It's unlike anything he's smelt before.

It is a vile, putrid stench, a sickening blend of everything most foul. The scent clambers through his innards where it settles in the bile of his stomach, emptying its contents in violent regurgitation. The stench _burns_ him. It blackens the edges of his peripheral vision, it clouds his lungs, a residual tar left upon his exhale. It then resides within his entrails, nauseating him for the hours to come.

Sanji lays on his bed in a daze, constrained under his too hot sheet.

"It's strange. . .you're a very healthy boy. . ." the woman mutters, mostly to herself.

She nears him, Sanji swallows back a gag.

"What brought this on?"

Sanji breaks from her gaze. It wouldn't be very gentlemanly of him to tell off a lady, especially in regards to her less than pleasant odor. He opts to breath open mouthed, allowing the rancid air to pass in a less lethal manner. He's shocked to discover he's actually pleased when the woman leaves his side. She passes through his door, and for a moment, Sanji thinks she's engulfed in darkness, a murky black that condenses into a mist like substance, wisping around her frame.

She dies three days later.

The second time Sanji crosses the scent, he wastes away atop the wave eroded rock. He is but flesh and bones, hunger seizing his being. It hollows his cheeks, it steals his skins youthful, elastic glow, it breaks away at his muscles and weakens his once strong, calcium enriched bones. The smell of death is faint, but it's little comfort. The murky black returns, billowing in waves. It looms, teasing the residents of the rock. It pokes and prods, never quite nearing as a permanent result.

Sanji glares at the gloom that taints the atmosphere, resilient and defiant. He never accepts death as a mercy, but as a burden, an obstacle that stands in the way of his dream.

 _'I won't die.'_

 _'Not before I find the All Blue.'_

 _'I'm hungry. . .'_

He survives starvation and has possibly conquered death (he sees the prior as a more noteworthy achievement). With his dreams discarded and no place to call home, Zeff takes him in and he spends his youth working aboard the old man's ship, the Baratie.

Sanji polishes his skills as a chef, though, much to his dismay, isn't given many chances to shine. The restaurant ship finds itself short-staffed in their waiting department, the delinquent-like behaviour of the other chefs scaring off all potential applicants―the damn unrefined bastards. It comes as no surprise when Zeff forces Sanji to take on a part-time position.

He's not as cordial as Zeff would like him to be, but he's at least amenable to the ladies.

Various customers walk through the doors of the Baratie, diversified in age, race, and gender.

Through his waiting tables, Sanji learns one immutable fact: the scent of death is nondiscriminatory.

In retrospect, his epiphany was not so much an 'epiphany'. As most knew, death was blind to its takings. Yet as Sanji breezes through tables, takes on the orders of his customers, and partakes in idle conversation, he realizes the stench is _always_ apparent. It may drape mercilessly over the young and able-bodied while the old and sick remained scentless to its fetid stink. It may hang heavily as one appears to have lived the course of their life, or haze weakly as others begin to show signs of illness. The fact stood: death's scent was a constant.

Sanji tries not to wonder what will be made of his customers―how long before death takes them, if they will return before the strike of their final hour. It's a depressing route of thought and so Sanji tries not to dwell on it too much.

To his credit, Sanji shows an emotion which may or may not be mistaken as a sort of kindness (or, perhaps, sympathy?) to those customers that near death. He makes sure special care is put into their dishes, that desserts are placed on the house, and that his attitude is put in check when serving male customers. These actions raise an eyebrow or two, but Sanji is never questioned.

It's the day Sanji meets the Strawhats everything changes.

He would never willingly admit it, but the four-man crew gives his life new meaning.

His respect for Luffy is limitless.

His appreciation for Nami is eternal.

His bond with Usopp is strong.

His. . .with Zoro. . .it's different with Zoro. He hates the man's guts (with a passion, he might add). His crude manner rubs him the wrong way, his sense of taste, he quickly learns, is as off as his sense of direction (though he suspects the whole shit food/shit cook nonsense is just said to rile Sanji). He's strong enough for Sanji to acknowledge the moss-head as his rival. He's incredibly lazy and vulgar and. . .despite all his personal faults, Sanji _revers_ the idiot swordsman.

 _'When I decided to be the greatest swordsman in the world I already discarded my life.'_

Zoro was willing to die for his dream.

Would Sanji?

Sanji quickly accustoms himself to pirate life. It's a life full of unexpected, never ending adventures. He cooks more than he has his whole life. He picks up on the diverse tastes of his crew. Orange desserts for Nami, spice-based lunches for Usopp, seafood chowders for Zoro―Luffy's stomach is an elastic void that can never be filled by the delicacies of his culinary creations.

It's the happiest he's ever been.

But something dark coils within his core.

It weaves and meshes together, a knot instinctively forms in his gut.

He senses this happiness is not everlasting.

* * *

The scent wafts under his nose.

For a moment, it goes unnoticed, Sanji serving the lovely Robin and gorgeous Nami.

"Enjoy your desserts, Nami-swan, Robin-chawn, my dears, my beautiful angels. To grace this ship with your―"

He smells it.

A fierce look replaces his love strewn grin. The scent is faint from the distance, but it's unmistakable. The malicious foulness―death―resides in this ship, blanketing one of his crew mates. But who? Sanji bites down on his cigarette, unnerved eyes scouring the ship. Nami and Robin are exempt from his worry, the fetor not scented within close proximity.

The two women exchange looks of concern as Sanji hastily excuses himself. He dashes at the turn of his heel, hauling his feet across the grass-embedded field deck where he approaches the idiot trio, fists bunched at his sides. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper pause in their play (imitating Franky, he thinks), wary of Sanji's stormy approach.

Usopp shoots Luffy a look. "Luffy, did you steal food again? Don't tell me you ate all the meat?"

"No! I swear! There's still a bit left for you guys."

"Luffy!" Chopper yells, voice quivered with fear.

Sanji stops.

And he sniffs.

A moment passes and his tense shoulders ease, if only slightly. "If it isn't you three. . .Oi, where are Franky and Zoro?"

Chopper answers. "I saw Franky by the aquarium. Zoro's in the crow's nest."

The three watch as Sanji departs.

"What was that about?"

"Sanji's acting strange."

"Seems the same to me."

"He _sniffed_ us!"

Sanji enters the aquarium only to leave at the heavy odor of fish and phytoplankton that stain glass tanks. At the lack of death's grotesque stink, Sanji turns foot at a bewildered cyborg as he heads up deck for the crows nest. His heart hammers, a mantra of no's spoken at a dreading reality. _Let it be a fluke_ , he thinks, but he knows better than to grasp at the silver of hope. _Not the marimo_.

He bursts through the door, the cacophony of his clambering feet and haggard breathing does not perturb the swordsman's nap. Arms pillowing his face, Zoro lays on polished floors, dumbbells littered at his side. The mid-day sun cascades over his sleeping form, his shadow cast as it fades into its brilliant glow.

The stench hits him like the crack of a whip.

He throws up.


	2. Chapter 2

Sanji minces a clove of garlic with vehemence, sprinkling the diced vegetable into a shallow pot of oil. He gratifies in its sizzle, the soft hiss of the saute assuaging his frazzled nerves. He sets a stalk of celery onto the cutting board next, the soft greens of the vegetable sparking an indignance that could counter a god's wrath. All green produce are handled with callous fingers, his eyes drowning in the colour, thoughts swerving towards a certain marimo.

He's livid.

Of his crew, of course, Zoro would be first to go. The reckless, self-sacrificing idiot. His anger boils, it seethes hotter than the sharp pop of oil, at the remembrance of the swordsman's vow. To never lose when faced with the enemy. _Bullshit_ , Sanji thinks. There no way Zoro could follow up on such a promise. He could never foresee the dangers brought on by the pirate life. Not like Sanji.

The door of the galley creaks to an open. Zoro walks in, hair mussed from sleep. He bites back a yawn. His eyes are bleary from his recent wake. He steps for the fridge and kneels to open the door. Cool air fogs the floor. It condenses at the heat of the kitchen. He takes his pick at a bottle of rum and Sanji very nearly snaps, but at the scent of death's odor, the cook innately opens a drawer for a cap opener.

Zoro gnaws the cap off with his teeth.

Sanji closes the drawer.

"Hey, Marimo."

He takes a swig. "What do you want, Barf-cook?"

Sanji ignores the insult in favour of his concerns.

"Why don't you consider. . ." he starts, and awkwardly trails into silence, very narrowly escaping the utterance of a very stupid, naive inquiry.

 _'Why don't you consider taking it easy for a while?'_

He scoffs to himself. Such questions would raise arguments, enmity, and worst of all, suspicion. And Sanji is never one to enhance suspicion, especially in regards to the oddities, otherwise viewed as his supernatural skill. With such morbid abilities, Sanji fears his existence as an irregular. He would rather pull the wool over the eyes of his crew-mates than let them know of his abnormalities. No doubt would he be seen as a sort of foreboding image, a messenger of death.

And to pull the danger out of the swordsman's life, he supposed, was quite aberrant. It would be like refusing a bird's right to fly. Or a trapping the muzzle of a dog so it could not bark.

"Uh. . .never mind," he says instead.

Zoro raises a brow. "Huh? Now I'm curious."

"It's nothing, shitty-swordsman. Stop drinking all the alcohol we've got, and get out of my kitchen!"

He kicks Zoro out of the galley. The door is slammed in his face (he receives a string of curses for that), it's rude, he admits, but he does whatever he can to single himself with his thoughts.

Once again it is left up to Sanji to protect his nakama _―_ or Zoro in this case. It is obvious the swordsman will be of little use to him. Sanji couldn't rely on an idiot who weighs their ambitions as a paramount importance rather than their life.

The scent of death hangs heavy on the swordsman. Sanji has three weeks at best.

Three weeks to cheat death.

* * *

Sanji is at the ripe age of twelve when he meets her.

She gorgeous. A girl not much older than he. Soft and cute with hair that smells sweetly of cotton candy.

Sanji's first love.

Her features are fuzzy in his memories, her name forgotten on his tongue, yet she remains stagnant in his mind as a pillar of his abilities.

She's the only person in which death is deterred by Sanji.

She walks through the doors of the Baratie accompanied by her mother and father. The family dresses humbly in semi-formal attire (it's slightly below Baratie dress code requirements, but they are not reprimanded for their wear). They hold a four-day reservation, Sanji learns, leading the family of three to their table. Zeff's eyes burn through his skull, and so, with a rehearsed, childish cheer, Sanji records their order, emulating specials and chef recommendations.

He finds the task tedious. He doesn't understand why he's forced to socialize with the customers. He words are spieled right from the menu. Really, all he adds is a youthful persuasion.

He's in the middle of suggesting desserts, lemon creme brulee, when, like a gentle gust of wind, death's stench wafts under his nose. Sanji chokes on his words, nausea churning the bile in his stomach. He attempts for composure, but his rapidly paling skin betrays him. His voice shakes, his eyes reluctantly peer at the youngest member at the table.

 _That girl will die_.

"Excuse me," he chokes.

He dashes for the kitchen, order clenched between his fists

Zeff reaches for the paper, but Sanji pulls away.

"Let me cook."

He frowns.

"Please."

At the look of his eyes, red-rimmed from an on flow of tears, the elder man sighs. "Fine, kid."

A knife is held in his hands, various ingredients set before him.

He gets to work.

There is a level of concentration distinguished through his culinary process. It reaches new heights, embellishing his skills as a chef.

Zeff watches over with a look of interest.

Thirty minutes later, an exquisite meal lays before the eyes of his guests.

Creamy mushroom soup is brought forth as an appetizer. The viscosity softens the taste buds, each spoonful warming the core. It satisfies yet teases the appetite, leaving customers wanting more. The main course is set aesthetically in platters, crab alfredo for the lady, herb roasted lamb chops for the man, and garlic shrimp spaghetti for the girl. Yet the savory dishes are shared between members of the table, an elementary show of their linked bond.

Sanji returns, setting bowls of decadent creme brulee to gorge in on their already filled bellies. From the corner of his eye, he watches the exchange of warm smiles and suppressed gluttony. It brings a warm feeling to his chest.

"This is the best food I've ever had!" exclaims the girl.

Sanji's heart wrenches at the complement, and with an unexpected surge of will thinks:

 _'I can't let her die.'_

* * *

Repercussions.

There were many repercussions that came from his saving her.

Regrets and errors stir his conscience in the late nights where Sanji has only his thought to accompany him through darkness and rough waves.

He would not make the same mistake with Zoro. He _couldn't_ make the same mistake with Zoro.

To deter death, he would have to know the method in which death takes him. It's of the utmost importance, if, of course, he truly wants to save Zoro. And he wants to. Really. _However_. . .there are unpleasant arrangements that come with the forestalling of death. There is no dancing around it. Circumstances holds him in a tight grip.

Sickness or Injury.

Which of the two is it?

He hopes for the latter.

Luffy lingers by the door. He eyes the thick cuts of meat, fingers gripping the casing of the door. Sanji pays his captain no heed, garnishing the seared juicy reds with a sprinkle of herbs. He admires Luffy's constraint. Sanji thinks he'll be less adamant in his refusing tenth servings of meat. But the thought quickly dissipates as a stretch of fingers reach for a plate.

 _That little―_

A knife embeds into the table, Luffy's fingers pull back like the snap of elastic.

" _Wah!_ "

Sanji pretends to have committed no ill with against his captain. "Oi, Luffy. Call up the others. Dinner's on the table."

The galley soon seeps with life. Luffy, Usopp, and Chopper are first to seat themselves. They smell heavily of sweat with the added stink of adrenaline ranking the room. Grass is woven into their hair _―_ or fur in Chopper's case _―_ hinting Sanji towards an eventful day thankfully missed by his cooping of the kitchen. Usopp's fingers taps impatiently against the table; Luffy shows visible restraint. They know better than to dig in before the others arrive, a rule implemented by Sanji. It isn't a draconian rule, but breaking it holds a draconian consequence (Usopp accuses Sanji's kicks for permanently numbing his face _―_ an obvious lie)

Nami and Robin walk leisurely through the upper decks. They stroll through the doors, engaged in conversation with the other. As always, Sanji moves fluidly at their side, eyes forming hearts. The orange haired goddess disregards his advances, but Robin, the cool beauty that she is, momentarily breaks from conversation, offering him one of her cryptic smiles.

The acknowledgement alone is enough to set his heart aflame.

Franky's is second last to enter. He settles inbetween Usopp and Robin.

"Where's the marimo?"

A yawn answers for him. "I'm here."

"Another nap, swordsman-san?"

"Yeah. I'm feeling really tired these days." He shoots Luffy a glare. "I can't sleep listening to your obnoxious snoring."

With the crew seated, dinner is served.

Chaos ensues.

It's really no different than any other dinner. As per usual, Sanji is worked over the stove, even with dinner set. It's near next to impossible satisfying the gluttonous elasticity of Luffy's stomach. He can pick up on arguments surrounding Luffy's thieving fingers, often pausing in his grilling meat to chide the voracious captain. Nami and Robin speak animatedly, dips in mood often surfacing in their conversation. With the addition of Franky to their crew, Usopp finally has someone to bicker with over the intricacies of mechanics.

Zoro attempts to assuage Chopper's tears, offering his leftovers when Sanji steps in, plating all three dishes with meat.

"Luffy, I won't repeat myself. Steal again and you get no more meat."

He treads back to the counter, sampling his own dish. _It could use a little more seasoning_ , he thinks chopping a clove of garlic.

"Did you hear of those poor children at Namba Island?"

His knife slows.

"Yes, it's quite unfortunate."

Nami stirs her drink. "They were orphans."

"It seemed the matron rebelled against the fascist rule, ergo the results."

She shakes her head, melancholic. "Fifty-six lives that will never see another sunrise."

She places a hand on her shoulder. "It's saddening, isn't it, knowing they were so young?"

"Of course. I guess I'm. . ."

He tunes out the ladies conversation. He returns to slicing the clove with a Sanji-like zeal.

"Quit your bluffin', Usopp-bro."

"It's true."

He waves a dismissive hand. "There's no way. Tell any more lies and that nose of yours will grow."

"What nonsense are talking about _―_ The sniper king tells no lies! Believe me when I say the Diablo pepper is hot enough to kill the strongest of men!"

Sanji frowns.

"Meat!" Luffy yells.

"Luffy, no!" Chopper cries.

The clatter of plates and sound of chomps follow.

"Luffy," Zoro growls. "I swear to god, I will kill _―_ "

Sanji's knife slams into the cutting board, silencing all conversation.

He stalks his way over a full-mouthed Luffy, a bawling Chopper, and a worn looking Zoro.

"Sawnji, I'm sworrwy. It wuw wight theugh. I caudn't helph myselfw."

Sanji ignores Luffy's incoherent attempt at an apology. He instead glares at the marimo, who, in return, spikes a brow in confusion. Regret stiffens his limbs, but it's too late to back out now; he's already made it this far, who knows if he'll be so willing the next time. For that reason, using his swift fingers, Sanji grabs Zoro, the yoke of his shirt bunched in his fist. His palms slick with sweat. _Now,_ he thinks

He hauls him across the table, earning a grunt of surprise from the swordsman.

Sanji kisses him.


	3. Chapter 3

_A gentle blue sky. A pleasant breeze whisking through fine green strands of hair._

 _Dust gusts overhead, small rocks embedding skin._

 _A heavy copper scent smothers the nasal cavities, a thick liquid coats the tongue, wringing the taste of something corrosive and bitter._

 _Pain courses the body, but it's dull and hazy―much like the sensations evoked from a dream._

 _Determined eyes gaze up at soft, affable blue. White haze clouds once crisp vision, eliciting a fear unlike no other: a fear of life's fading essence. A fixation to the atmosphere remains, a primary source of comfort._

 _Senses numb. The metallic stench of blood is no more; the acerbic taste of blood is less pervasive. Pain steadily erodes, like water against rock._

 _There is a cry._

 _It pierces the air, anguished and sorrowed._ _There's a traced rasp in the howl, roughened around its edges, but sharpening nonetheless._ _It wrenches at the heart, screaming a name, wet through tears._

 _The blurred figure in the distance. . ._

 _Luffy? Usop―_

Zoro punches him.

Their lips part, tearing Sanji from his vision. There is an unexpected show of clumsiness from the cook as he blunders with his feet, evidently thrown afoot. He tumbles onto the floor, hand indignantly placed over his cheek―it bulges red from the infliction.

"What the hell, Marimo! I was just trying to―"

Silence emanates from the galley. It's thick―near palpable.

Dinner has come to a halt, eyes dividing between the swordsman and pirate chef.

Chopper and Usopp shield behind their captain, who to his credit, displays genuine shock, almond eyes widened, rather than bulged with a comical slack jaw to match. Nami bites on her lower lip, brows creased in bemusement, showing little reaction otherwise; Robin positions her hand over her mouth, an 'oh my' muttered under her breath; The cyborg's metal linked fingers smush against his face in a desperate attempt to suppress laughter.

 _Shit_.

Sanji realizes the importance of subtleties at that moment. He is alone in the knowledge of his abilities. What is common for Sanji raises a tension dissimilar to anything he's ever felt before.

His chest stings.

It's unlike him to be so tactless.

To be so affected by the mere utterance of death. . .it's ridiculous. Death is a natural part of life―his life especially. He's molded by its ever-present linger. It is a part of who he is, what has built on his character.

But now. . .

A thought burdens his conscience.

He fears what it will do to Zoro.

A blush creeps the swordsman's face. A deep wine against his tan skin.

"Zoro―"

"You. . .You. . ." He takes a step back. "You. . .homo-cook."

He storms out of the galley, slamming the door shut behind him.

The impact reverberates into the quiet of the kitchen.

Franky loses it.

* * *

Death, Sanji finds, precedes its reputation.

Many, Sanji included, scorn death as being, what they consider, one's undoing. When in truth, it is not death they should fear, but their circumstance.

If anything, death looms as a brutal spectator. It watches from afar, a warmth emitting from the dark gloom. It leads Sanji to believe it garners some sort of sick, sadistic pleasure from observing its malicious takings. Fear spikes as its fading sensation settles in, the rancor remains, yet death is never the element leading in one's condition of illness, injury, or other deathly situation.

If Sanji had to define death's position, its burden on life, it would be as a conclusion. A final result.

Sanji has grown to understand death as he's matured and there is much he's learned since gaining his more morbid abilities. For example: unlike its more desired counterpart, death has always been the fairer of the two, the quality of life catering to the well-fortuned. However death―death will never discriminate. It is as fair as it will ever be, callously so.

That fact alone should ease him in his disdain towards death, but Sanji holds little respect for the bringer of unhappiness. He will never forgive its merciless taunting brought on as he lay stranded on that god forsaken rock.

At a young age, Sanji knows there are certain boundaries that should never be crossed. He's learned to loop his way through quite a few, yet there stands three bonafide laws in which can never be broken.

Sanji's Law: Death Edition

1\. Never deter death.

2\. Never inform those marked by death of their impending fate.

3\. (Personal) Never place emotional investment of those marked.

Sanji realises he's about to break two of those three rules.

A cannon fires. It's of close proximity, judging by the lingering crackle of gun powder heard upon its fire.

 _Zoro's out there,_ he thinks with dread.

He's quick to jump on his feet, escaping the awkwardness of his inelegant display of. . .whatever that had been.

The rest of the crew quickly follows suit. They gather on deck, Nami assembling her Climate Baton, Robin's arms crossing in defense, Franky cocking his arm, and Chopper breaking into his Arm Point form.

Marines litter the ship, armed with swords and rifles. They are of the weaker variety, Sanji analyzes. There are at least one hundred of them in all, attacking in clumps of bodies (a strength in number tactic, Sanji presumes) They mesh together in assorted scents: sweat, salty sea air, and few with deaths' odor. It's a tad overpowering to his senses, but he stands his guard.

The marines are easy to bring down. Luffy's elastic punches scatter men in the wind. They are brought to their knees, skin charcoaled and hair stuck on end, in aid of Nami's baton. Robin ruthlessly uses her expendable limbs hauling men overboard, other marines willingly throwing themselves off deck at the sight of Franky and Chopper. Smoke bombs fume in an array of colours, fitful coughs wrung from Usopp's expertly aimed Deluxe Tabasco Stars.

It's a pathetically easy fight.

But Sanji's defenses are still raised. He can't afford to lower his guard, not when a certain Marimo falls so close to his final days.

Sanji himself faces troubles in combat. His kicks lack a Sanji edge, his muscles knot at a tension building in his gut, and his heart is not found in the fight, he realizes, his eyes searching for Zoro's fuzzy moss hair.

A marine falls at his feet, an angered growl follows immediately after.

"Sanji! What's with you?" snaps Zoro, his prior humiliation temporarily forgotten. "Are you going to let these weaklings beat you?"

"I didn't need help." _Especially not from you_. "I had him."

He laughs, but it comes off sounding cruel and bitter. "Yeah right. I just saved your ass."

"You saved me? If there's anyone in this crew that needs saving, it's _you_ , stupid Marimo." He mutters the last part.

"What was that?"

They lunge for each other, only to be intercepted by a pair of arms. It emerges between them, a flutter of petals flowing through nimble fingers.

"Enough."

And they stop.

But not without a final glare.

* * *

It's a moonless night. The air is crisp and cool, the Thousand Sunny sailing gently through the calm sea. Sanji revels in the brisk air, a mug of milk tea (sweetened with a dollop of honey) warming his palms. There is another mug that steams atop the brass railing, an identical cup composed of a similar bone china. He eyes the mug warily, before gathering it up in his arms.

He moves discreetly across the deck, and with quiet steps climbs up an intersecting set of stairs. He shifts up through the companionway until he faces a door of the ship's most upper level.

The Crows Nest.

He knocks before entering.

Sure enough, he finds a bored-looking Zoro staring lazy out fog-tinted windows. He hears him come in, but doesn't bother acknowledging his presence.

Sanji sets a mug on the windowsill. "For you."

He accepts the cup and nods―more like lolls his head―in thanks.

They drink in companionable silence when Zoro, in a sleep heavy voice asks, "What do you want?"

Sanji thinks the blunt question may constitute as rudeness, but he lets it slide. "Nothing. I couldn't sleep, thought you might use some company."

Zoro takes a long, heavy sip before saying, "Is that so." His eyes squint. "But you're acting strange. Too. . . _nice_."

Sanji rolls his eyes. "Can't you read the mood? I'm trying to make peace."

He makes a face. "For what? Being an idiot or kissing me?"

Sanji chokes on his drink mid-swallow. "That's. . ."

He scrutinizes him as his voice fades into silence. "Say. . .do you like me?"

His expression bunches together, as if he's eaten a particularly bitter lemon. "Excuse me?"

Zoro frowns at his reaction. "I asked if you liked me."

He splutters for an answer, but his tongue twists oddly, conjuring unintelligible sentences . . . _That's not a question I expected to be asked_. _Zoro_ wasn't supposed to ask _him_ such. . . _ridiculous_ questions.

From the moment Sanji caught death's scent, a mission was thwarted upon him. It was supposed to be handled with stealth and diligence. Instead, he now finds himself faced within a delicate situation, with a question the Zoro of yesterday would _never_ have asked the Sanji of today.

"You know what, Zoro―" Alas, he can't do it. He can't break the third and final rule. It's too cruel. _Besides, there's no reason to instill fear when I plan to erase that fear altogether._

His forgotten will courses through his body and he vehemently thinks:

 _I can't let him die._

"―That's right, Marimo. I've always been one for the ladies, but you. . .you catch my attention. I guess you can say you're my ideal man." It's a lousy confession, but anything to divert him from the truth. "I think I've always liked you."

Zoro looks skeptical. "Always? Since you joined the crew?"

"Ever since I've joined the crew," he confirms.

Sanji leans back against the pane, arms crossed as he awaits his response.

Zoro appears to contemplate his words (a subtle ploy in consideration of Sanji's 'feelings').

Sanji theorizes the many scenarios that could occur at that moment. A quiet order that he leave, a swallow of a laugh, a brusque 'no'.

What he _doesn't_ expect is for his confession to be returned.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I would like to apologize for chapter three. I think the whole chapter was _atrocious_. I just had so much trouble with letting things just _flow,_ like their supposed to. Anyway, I hope this chapter makes up for it. I hope. . .

* * *

Zoro ignores him for the most part.

Well. . .not really.

Two days pass since his confession and already Sanji senses the progressive shift in his relationship with the swordsman.

There are eyes that linger on his frame, stemming from a heavy and discomforting gaze.

Sanji thinks it's Zoro's way of being discreet since he never does anything past the looking.

He spares Zoro, never returning the gaze, but hell if it doesn't bother him. It's strange for him to think, Zoro―of all people would feel the need to be discreet, especially when it came to Sanji.

There's less of a bite in his more snide remarks. Sure, when talking to Sanji he ends his words with the usual 'shitty cook' or makes frequent jabs at his eyebrows, but . . . How can he put this. . .The names seemed to ring to a different tune.

He realises they are uttered with endearment.

And it does more than freak him out. A whirl of emotions contort his expression. Embarrassment: his face flushes a bright red. Confusion: a tilt of a frown (because how on earth can you romanticize 'dart-brow'?) Guilt: wandering eyes because― _fuck_ he can't do this anymore. Sanji may have been less sympathetic towards men and unremorseful when it came to his assholish behaviour towards Zoro, but he knew better than to lead him on.

But what's he supposed to say now? 'Sorry, Marimo, I only confessed to you because I wanted to distract you (and was hoping to avoid you) so I could focus on deterring your untimely death?'

Yeah, that would totally work.

The other Strawhats have been suspiciously quiet since Sanji's kiss with Zoro. At an earlier point in time, Sanji feared the eerie silence was, in fact, a veil of their disapproval, which put him in dismay, as he had not pegged his crew as the prejudiced type. Yet there has been a lack of frigid looks and holds of antagonistic demeanours which has him halt in the conclusion. Life simply goes on as normal aboard the Thousand Sunny. The crew is simply. . .quiet.

Sanji tries not to dwell on the mistakes made these past few days, for the time being anyway. He focuses on more important issues at hand.

He sits back in a velvet chair, his face illuminated by the aquarium's aquatic glow. A crisp sheet of white paper lays across the polished mahogany wood, scrawled with little cursive notes.

Notes on 'target M's' death

 _-Is outside during at time of death(does that_ cancel _out sickness?)_

 _-Agreeable weather(can assume he does not die due to natural disaster)_

 _-Blood―internal (maybe relating back to sickness? Bad angle, could not see other visible wounds)_

 _-Cry of an outsider(Unsure if shocked cry or knowing/devastated cry. Would determine if death was expected, confirming sickness or injury.)_

 _Conclusion:? ? ?_

 _(Lack of information)_

Sanji throws his head back, fatigued. He has to start on lunch soon, and so far, he hasn't gotten anywhere with his vision analysis.

He's really starting to get frustrated. What good was he when he couldn't even get through the basics?

He crumples the paper in his palms, slipping the scrunched-up ball through his coat pocket. He's about to get up when he hears a voice from outside the door.

It's Zoro. He yells something Sanji can't really make out, his words are muffled by the door.

"Yeah, well, I don't want your help!" he snaps, slamming the door upon his entrance. He doesn't notice Sanji as he leans back against the door, exhaling a long, worn out sigh. His tan, calloused fingers comb through sweat dampened hair, brows drawn tightly together, creases formed in-between creases. The Marimo looks royally pissed, and Sanji is prudent enough to know not to cross him.

He wonders if he can somehow slip out without his knowing.

Zoro's eyes snap open and Sanji freezes as if caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

A tension strings between them.

Sanji's first to speak. "Got into an argument with someone?" he asks lamely.

Zoro resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Nami says we're docking an island soon, so if you want to stock up on ingredients, do it now."

Sanji tilts his head. "What kind of island?"

He shrugs. "Hell, if I know."

He makes a movement to leave.

Sanji is abrupt to call out to him. "Zoro, wait."

He turns his head, making a show to look annoyed, but there is a certain lack of peevishness in the expression, which again, unnerves Sanji. "What is it?"

His mouth hangs dumbly, words unsounded by his tongue.

 _'I don't love you'_

Is what he was _going_ to say.

But. . .

They end up kissing. And Sanji _may_ have been the one to initiate it.

He vaguely recalls stepping towards him, arms blockading his sides. His thumb and forefinger tilting his face towards him. His eyes widened from their half-mast position, the indifferent mask often donned by the swordsman breaking at that moment. Sanji relished in his flushed face and in the discomfort brought on by their closeness. But as to who initiated what at that juncture is quickly forgotten as his lips capture his.

A warmth seeps through his body, a tingling sensation erupting from a single press of lips. His fingers numb from their intense urge to explore the specimen before him. But not wanting to go any farther in their shared affection, Sanji restrains, keeping one hand firmly at his side.

They fall deeper into the kiss, tongue protruding each other's mouths. A pleasuring rush of heat courses through him and Sanji drowns, practically drunk on the phenomenon. He feels Zoro's fingers rake through his hair, his grip tightening as Sanji pushes their mouths harder together.

There are little breaks in their kisses. They both gasp with each momentary parting of lips. When it gets to be too much, and black begins to sully his vision, Sanji pulls back, taking a moment to stabilize his breathing.

He's about to dive for another kiss when he catches the scent of blood.

Zoro's bleeding.

 _Everywhere_.

A warm breeze picks up in the still aquarium. The sun rises above, the fish tanks fading into its brilliant shine. Zoro's clothes are torn and tattered, his hair matted with blood. His eyes edge with agony, glossed over in primal fear. Sanji extends his arms out towards him, alas, he fades from his reach. His form dissipates from his vision and suddenly he's faced with his own.

A cry that calls from his last vision echoes through rubble.

It's his cry.

He chokes on air, tears streaming down his face.

"Zoro. . .please. . .I'm sorry."

* * *

The marketplace bustles with life.

Vendors sell their produce, boasting on quality and shout promises of low-priced goods. The sharp scent of spices and the stink of fish mix into the heat of the day. Sanji hauls a large barren cart with Zoro trailing not far behind. The sun beats mercilessly overhead, sweat forming at his hairline. He pulls a handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbing gently at his forehead.

Sanji feels Zoro's worrying eyes at his back.

"Hey, shitty cook. . .are you okay?"

He shoots him a brief, sideways glance. "Of course. Why do you ask?"

In truth, Sanji knows why Zoro inquiries to his well-being. He's really just humouring him. . .in a cruel sort of way. He watches in delight as Zoro tenses, proceeding to blush and mutter his disinterest under his breath.

That delight is quick to fade as Sanji reflects on the earlier events of the day. Cold sweat shivers at his spine, his recollection of the vision a fervour chilling agent.

He _cries_ over Zoro.

And Zoro. . .

He still doesn't know _what_ happens.

So he decides to change the subject.

"We need to stock up on beef and poultry," he says. "And I need at least three kilos of salt. Those are our essentials. Everything else is just extra."

He nods. "I thought I saw butcher somewhere around here. . .Wait here a moment. I'll be right back."

"Okay," Sanji says, tucking his handkerchief back into his breast pocket. "Don't take too long―" It's then he remembers the directionally mental that is Zoro. "Shit―wait, Marimo!"

He's already gone.

"Ah, dammit."

He turns, lugging the cart behind him. He knows trying to find Zoro is like searching for a needle―a very fine one at that―in a haystack, but he tries anyway because Zoro is in no position to be alone.

His eyes scrutinize a mob of bodies, endeavouring to spot a mess of vibrant green in netting shades of yellows, blacks, and browns.

Strangely enough, he comes across a pair of icy blue eyes.

And a cryptic smile.

"Cook-san," Robin greets.

"Robin-chawn!" Sanji returns with a tad more zeal. "What are you doing at the marketplace?"

There is a pause. "I thought I'd look around, perhaps indulge in the island's culinary delicacies."

Sanji feels his lips tug downwards. Somehow he gets the sense she's not telling the whole truth. "Is that all?"

She blinks, a flash of surprise lighting her features, but she's quick to recover from her shock, the embodiment of serenity. "Why, Cook-san, I get the feeling you don't believe me." She taps a finger at the corner of her mouth. "I wonder what schemes I shall be accused of?"

"N―No! I would never _not_ believe you, Robin-chawn. And to accuse you of devious acts is the last thing I would want to do!"

She makes a low chuckle. "I'm only kidding." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "Well, Cook-san, If you must know, I've come here to settle my curiosity."

"Curiosity? About what?"

Arms held behind her back, Robin takes an inconspicuous look over her shoulder before she speaks. "Years ago, when I still lived life as a fugitive, I heard certain. . rumours," she says. There is a dearth of warmth in her voice. "Of a fruit that originates from this very island. It was an artificially created fruit, now no longer in production. It's sole purpose was to 'counter'―and I use the word counter lightly―the devil fruits. In reality, its goal was to eliminate the handicaps shouldered by devil fruit users."

"So. . .the inability to swim," Sanji provided.

"Exactly. But producing the fruits was highly illegal and held hefty consequences."

"I don't understand. Why was it illegal?"

"Well, the world holds very orthodox traditions. People believed these 'fake devil fruits' would throw the balance of this world. Devil fruit users are a rarity, and to have so many users that are virtually flawless, well. . .it doesn't bode well, does it?"

"I guess not." Sanji searches for a cigarette, still plenty interested in these so called fabricated fruits. "But it doesn't really sound like you're all that against it."

She quirks a brow at him. "Oh, I am. Just not for the same reasons."

"What are _your_ reasons then?"

She's reticent. "Well, it's prejudice of me to say but. . .The artificial devil fruits granted their consumers with abilities too morbid for my tastes." Her face is taut. "I've come across a few users since my run from the government. Their powers are quite . . . _odd_."

His cigarette burns between his lips, unenjoyed. Their conversation seems to have taken an unexpected turn, partaking a more _personal_ route. "What sorts of powers are out there?" he asks even though he wants to do anything but such. Zoro, still lost amongst the market crowd, for the moment, lays forgotten in the backs of his mind.

"To name a few: The sua-sua fruit. If one stands within a ten-meter radius, a user may enable his or her enemy's conscious to kill themselves. The necro-necro fruit. The user can raise bodies, but not their souls, commanding cadavers in various condition to one's will and command." Her arms tighten at her sides. "Then, if not worst of all, there is the fate-fate fruit. I've not seen it with my eyes but I've indeed heard of it."

Sanji is the one to supply this information. "The user of that fruit can change a person's fate when it comes to life or death."

"Yes! How did you know?"

Sanji offers a sympathetic look.

She clamps a hand over her mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Late update, I know. Was busy with back to school stuff.

This is another _iffy_ chapter to me. Not as terrible as ch.3, in my opinion. I couldn't really fit in all I wanted in this chapter without making the writing look awkward, but I tried my best.

So here it is.

* * *

It all starts with one simple mistake.

A great number of ingredients are brought to the Orbit one late evening, no different than another. Though the waves are still and the night calm, there is a chaos that tears away at any sense of amity between chefs.

Sanji's extended family, all connected by their love of food, divide in a bitter rivalry.

Crates litter the floors, nailed tops propped open with crowbars or otherwise hacked off into skin splinting chips. They take up all available floor space, leaving little room to walk.

"Hey, I was using that, bastard!"

"Too bad, kid."

It happens once every year.

A new item is added to the menu―dessert this year. It's simple: create the best dish and you were promised a ten percent bonus by winter's solstice. Of course, it's not the money that appeals to Sanji, but the prestige that comes with the title of victor. After all, Sanji was still quite young and one of the newer chefs to work aboard the Orbit. His fellow colleagues looked down at his abilities, thinking his skills as nothing to sneeze at.

 _I'll show them,_ he thinks.

He's a prodigy when it comes to cooking. Sure, he may not have as much experience that refine his skills, but he has more than enough talent to make up for it.

He doesn't want to play safe.

An original creation then.

Fruit based perhaps?

He eyes the produce spilled on the counter.

The fruits originate from the many corners of the globe. Tropical oranges of the jungles, winter strawberries from the icy tundras of the north, violet desert mangos of the east, just to name a few. He's well adept in his knowledge of fruits and vegetables alike (he likes to keep note of them for future recipes). And yet. . .of the fruit that lays before him, there is one he doesn't recognize.

It's pitch black in colour, a soft-skinned fruit that lacks a gel-like shine. It's abstractly shaped, twisted in odd angles with a lumpy exterior to match.

Curious of its taste, Sanji gets a fruit knife and slices a small piece to sample.

His left eye winces at the taste.

 _Bitter_.

* * *

Sanji learns death holds divergent scents for each individual it marks.

That's not to say crossing paths with one that nears their death equates one having a pleasant smell(granted by life's shortcomings). Once death placed its mark on its takings, a pervasive stench was expected. However, those stinks _were_ distinguishable from one another. In a group of intertwining fetors of deaths (frightening a thought as it was,) Sanji could pinpoint the individual odors belonging to their respective persons.

It was a. . . _useful_ gift at times.

It's how he finds Zoro.

His scent leads him into a bit of a goose chase. From the markets, through pawn shops, and out through the rural towns of the island. He whirls through pathways, turning at intersections and climbing up sharp inclined hills. The sun is at its peak, dampening his black vest with sweat and he inwardly curses Zoro for being a directional retard and for having stupid green hair (he knows he's being unoriginal at this point, the heat probably sizzling away at his creativity).

A merciful gust of wind blows at his side and Sanji delights in the billowing coolness. Zoro's scent carries on the wind, forcefully waft under his nose.

He visibly stiffens at the odor.

It takes Sanji quite a bit of time to familiarize himself with Zoro's specific death essence. If he had to describe it in words, he would say it was a foul mix of carcasses and manure; it was one of the better scents, believe it or not. However. . .there was something _different_ about it this time. Something foul had been added to the odor, it was faint, but potent enough a scent to make his stomach churn.

He follows the trailing odor, feeling somewhat precarious about the whole thing (and a bit like a dog, to be honest). With each step he takes, he is crushed by the weightful smell. He doesn't understand. Zoro's odor of death has never smelt this strongly before.

It's then he realizes.

It's another person.

He's brought upon a shadowed alleyway, hidden from the town bustle and mild fervor of its citizens. The darkened path chills the heat off his skin, engulfing him in its gloom.

He swallows back a retching gag, brought in the center of its stench.

Zoro leans over a crumpled figure, his brows drawn and hands hovering with uncertainty.

It's almost amusing, watching Zoro look so concentrated yet unsure, but the atmosphere oozes with gravity and the situation calls for tact.

And so he steps forward.

And he pales.

 _Luffy's brother._

He stares at the faint silhouette, the frail vessel which embodies the fiery spirit that is Portgas D. Ace

Zoro extends two fingers towards the crook of his neck.

"Don't touch him!" he practically roars.

Zoro flinches at the command.

He just barely comes to terms with his added presence, surveying him with a mix of hurt and confusion. At his countenance and his unusual show of vulnerability, an apology forms on his tongue. But Sanji quickly catches himself. His jaw snaps to a close, his head jerking to the side as a final mark of refusal. "Step aside."

He takes Zoro's place on the ground, catching the swordsman's gaze in his peripheral vision.

He doesn't mean to come off sounding so. . . _assholish_.

Sanji holds certain superstitions when it came to death odors and the nature of his abilities. Like may have called to like (death in this case), but placed together and things could take a treacherous turn. Of course, Sanji had no solid proof of this, asides from the occasional pang in the gut, but he finds that his primal/intuitive reactions are always all too telling of what was to come. It would be foolish to dismiss them now.

Sanji observes the body.

Rapidly paling skin. Lips parted and tinted blue at the corners. Little warmth emanating from the skin. Chest―still. No signs of breathing, among other things.

He shows all signs of death.

 _But_.

The stench remains.

 _That means. . ._

His eyes snap open.

...

Sanji recalls Luffy saying something odd about his brother's sleeping patterns . . .of course, he'd only been half listening. He'd fixed his attention towards preparing breakfast, and, at the time, had been more focused on getting Luffy's thieving fingers away from his ingredients.

 _"Yeah, my brother sleeps like a log," he says, fingers not-so-subtly reaching for a plate of grilled pork. "This one time I thought he was dead and I almost buried him!" he laughs._

* * *

Ace tags along their grocery spree, at Sanji's request, no less.

Zoro is characteristically quiet as always (though Sanji silently suspects he's a tad too mute, as he ignores Sanji's more lighthearted jabs at his expense) leaving Sanji to make easy conversation with Luffy's older brother. However, beneath the amiable smiles and the niceties lies a calculative mentality. Thoughts in moving forward with his current predicament occupy his conscience.

Ace was going to die.

It was a mind numbing thought. Such a man of high caliber (and bounty) seemed invincible.

What are the means to his death? At what time would death strike? Would it be an easy passing? A painful one? Would Luffy bear witness his final moments, or worse, not at all?

These questions stir his morale.

Guilted him.

But Sanji couldn't possibly save Ace.

Could he?

No.

Zoro was his top priority.

It was bad enough that Sanji had challenged the fates all those years ago. Even then, with little knowledge of his own abilities and so little control, the end result had held detrimental effects. He mocks the fates once again with a committing resolve to save Zoro. No doubt, choosing to save Ace as well, would be regarded as a slap in the face (fictious anyway) for fate and death both.

Sanji tries to imagine Luffy's crying face―a messy blob of tears streaming down an elastic visage―broken at the news of his brother's death. It's a difficult image to conjure. His captain was one always found in high spirits. Morose moods unsuited him.

They reach the docks, cart full of various meats and spices, and rum of course.

The Thousand Sunny floats still on the rippling waves of the shore.

"Well, I guess I'll make my leave," announces Ace.

Sanji starts at the unexpected declare of departure but quickly eases into a faux show of cool.

"You're not going to let Luffy see you off first?"

He smiles. "I'm sure I'll meet him on the way."

"At least stay for dinner."

"Oh no, I couldn't. I have a long road ahead of me."

"All the more reason to," he insists.

He again politely declines.

Sanji bites down on his tongue, reflecting on his incessant need to keep Ace within reach of contact. Even Zoro picks up on it. It's thick, near palpable in the air. And though Sanji may have been undecided in his endgame, despite the many cons, he seemed to lean towards the more unfavorable of his two options.

Saving Ace.

 _I want to save him, or at least try._

The thought becomes an inadvertently spoken question.

He asks Ace to join their crew.

Well.

Not in those words exactly (really, just a weak proposition on Sanji's part) but by the reaction received, he might as well have.

Ace is shocked into silence, but Zoro breaks out of his.

"That's not for you to decide, idiot-cook."

He shoots Zoro a glare and he freezes, falling back into his odd, too-quiet silence.

Ace's eyes narrow, yet light, amused at these strange turn of events. "You don't even know where I plan on going."

Sanji feigns calm, reaching for a cigarette. "As pirates, aren't we all trying to get to the same place?"

He laughs, seeming to accept his answer. "That's true."

"Traveling with the Straw-hats. . .That does sound interesting." He looks between Sanji and Zoro.

And just like that.

The stench disappears.


End file.
